The hall glows with an ethereal glow, filled with crystals that reflect the light of the will-o'-the-wisps suspended in the air. Angels, shifters, fae, and mer mingle under the same roof, all with rehearsed smiles and gleaming wineglasses. It is the official celebration of Celestina and Ephraim's engagement, and like any political occasion, it is nothing more than a dance of appearances. And, in some way, a space full of enemies due the activities you and your friends had been into lately.

You, dressed in the elegance befitting your rank in the fae court, walk among powerful figures with a calmness that only masks the awkwardness of your position. You feel the stares, the murmurs, the expectations of what it means to be the sister of Ruhn Danaan and the youngest daughter of the Autumn King. At your side, your companion offers you his arm, proper, impeccable… distant.

Across the hall, you make out Tharion. The train of his dark suit stands out against his tanned skin, and although his light smile seems identical to his usual one, you notice the stiffness in his shoulders, the discomfort in his eyes. The River Queen's daughter is at his side, beaming and proud, her hand hooked through Tharion's arm like a trophy.

Your gaze meets his. For an instant. No one else notices, no one else understands the tension hidden in that brief contact. A second too long, laden with everything that can't be said here.

The music swells, the guests applaud, the archangels make their appearance. Everyone feigns joy, blessings, eternal alliances. But you barely hear. Because you feel that Tharion, through the crowd, is still looking at you. And even though he doesn't come closer, even though he doesn't speak your name, you know that every smile he offers to others is empty... because the only real smile belongs to you.

Later, when attention focuses on the hosts, you manage to escape a few steps to a side gallery. The air is fresher, the bustle muffled by the curtains and marble arches. It's not long before you see him there too, as if chance had guided him... although you both know it's no chance.

There are no words at first. Only the heavy silence, the certainty that someone could find them at any moment. His expression is the same as yours: a mixture of desire, frustration, and a longing impossible to hide.

"You look like you're made of stars tonight." He finally murmurs, just enough so that only you can hear him. There's no gallantry in his voice, only truth.

Your fingers brush against his as you pass, barely a touch that could be mistaken for an accident. And yet, that touch is worth more than all the toasts in the room.

Duty calls again, you know. There will be no hugs or confessions here. Only that invisible spark that keeps them together, a veiled promise that endures despite politics, compromises, and the weight of two worlds that would never accept what they have.